


Hey, Little Songbird

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Getting Together, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Hadestown, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mythology References, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23702668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “I’m going to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says stiffly. “Come with me.”Jaskier’s mouth falls open, but he’s quick to shut it. Geralt holds his gaze. “I’m...what?”“Would you rather spend your winter here?” Geralt’s voice hardens. “Out in the cold with ravens watching from the trees, waiting for the first of the starving or sick to drop?”And he’s seen it all before; winters were he didn’t make it to Oxenfurt on time, winters spent weathering out howling winds in shabby road-side inns and taverns. His bones shiver at the memory of it.Something must give away his answer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 794





	Hey, Little Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I pulled out of fucking nowhere a few hours ago. And it's now *checks clock* nearly 5 am, so RIP me. It might not make any sense. But we're three months into a pandemic and does anything make sense anymore?

The sun perches higher in the sky with each day that strolls them further into summer. Even the biting winds that would tumble down from the mountains, the last remnant of a bitter winter, are being chased away. If a breeze does blow through, it’s always warm. It doesn’t prickle his skin. As he walks along the dirt roads, the ground is firm and sure beneath his boots. He doesn’t fear of treading into a puddle or getting his feet wet and cold, unable to warm them with a fire that probably wouldn’t have started because of the howling winds.

But now, Jaskier tilts his head back and feels the sun on his face. Farmers are out in their fields tending to their animals and their crops. Green grass and fields lined with a growing harvest spread out, reaching for the horizon. Life has returned to the continent.

His lute is slung over his shoulder, swaying with how he walks. He’s like the rest of those living on this stretch of land. Sunlight warms his blood. It makes him giddy and inspired. The next town is only a few more miles of a walk. He wouldn’t have even bothered travelling a couple of weeks ago, when the roads were waterlogged and the air bitterly cold. But when the first of the daffodils started sprouting their buds along the long stretches of road, everyone knew that spring wouldn’t be far behind.

The days have been getting warmer. It’s been steady, but Jaskier knows by the middle of the year, the sun will perch and stay there for hours on end, scorching everything and everyone underneath it. It’s a fine line the world treads, trying to find a good balance between being not too cold and not too warm, for the benefit of the people living on it and off of it. Whatever forces are at play in the making of the weather seem to be doing well so far; but Jaskier has lived through some excruciating seasons.

By the time he gets to the next town, a fine sweat starts speckling along his brow. Everyone milling around seems to be the same. Men wander around in their loose linen shirts and breeches, while women cover their heads with light shawls. Market stalls line the streets with wares already stacked in front. Vendors call out to those passing through, offering small free samples of produce. Those selling silks and cloth hold out segments for people to touch. Jaskier’s pockets are light on coin; nothing a short performance in a tavern won’t fix.

People are merrier when the weather is kind. When he picks a tavern’s table to serve as a stage, when he strums the opening chords of the songs he wrote during the spring, people smile and sing along with him – or as best as they’re able to, with the tankards of ale and wine flowing. A good summer means plenty of barrels of grapes and barely. 

The summer becomes excruciating. It holds nothing over the summers of the south – not the south of this continent, but beyond the expanse of Nilfgaard. Not that Jaskier has ever been that far south, of course. Nilfgaard stretches on for leagues, and to the best of his knowledge, there are no maps of anything further south. But he imagines oceans of sand and rock.

It’s too hot to travel, so he holds up in Cidaris – with the only real problem being that he has to spend his days listening to the droning tones of one particular troubadour echo throughout the entire city. Even when he ventures out from tavern to tavern, the troubadour’s voice is always grating against his ear.

He’d rather lie down in the middle of the road and let himself wither underneath the sun.

But as he’s standing out in the middle of the street, counting coppers for a small bag of apples and considering letting the summer sun prune him, he spots a familiar sight out of the corner of his eye.

“Geralt!”

The Witcher stops mid-stride, looking towards Jaskier. His expression, outwardly, doesn’t change much. But Jaskier has known him for too long to know the little tells of an Annoyed Geralt to a Not-So-Annoyed Geralt. The Witcher is much like the rest of them; his hair pulled into a messy bun, out of his face and neck, and wearing one of the light black shirts Jaskier so often used to see him in.

Jaskier palms the coins in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt gestures vaguely to a wooden notice board fixed to the side of a nearby building. “Monsters don’t let up just because the weather is nice,” he explains simply. When he starts walking towards the board, Jaskier follows.

The last time he’d seen the Witcher was before the last of the crops were hauled in. It was what they usually did; both of them wintering in their own ways. What it was, exactly, that Geralt did, or where he went, Jaskier could never find out. When a Witcher’s most used word is not a word at all, but a grunt, one learns to stop awaiting answers to questions.

They always find each other after being parted for some time. Even with the Continent being as sprawling as it is, their roads will eventually cross one way or another. Geralt takes the offered contract, and Jaskier follows. There’s a griffin nest nearby, apparently. “I heard about that,” Jaskier hums, rolling up his shirt sleeves. Heat scalds the cobbles beneath his feet. “A few sellswords who were staying in the Red Arrow Inn went to investigate.”

Geralt hums. “Did they come back?”

Jaskier blink seems to be enough of an answer.

He finds out quickly that Geralt is just as crotchety in the summer. Maybe it’s the heat, or the swells of people insisting on packing themselves into every street and road they can find just to mingle, but Jaskier doesn’t get much in terms of conversation as he trails after the Witcher.

Not even an order to stay behind, because it’s a _griffin_ , and those things are fierce beasts.

Jaskier does stop underneath a grand oak tree, though. The overarching branches full with lush green leaves provide a shield from the sun overhead. “I think I’ll stay here while you...do whatever it is that you do,” he waves his hand towards a nearby hill where the griffin is supposedly nesting.

Geralt looks over his shoulder and grunts. He holds out Roach’s reins. “Try not to get her killed. Or I’ll kill you.”

The mare has grown used to him. Now, she only tries to nip his fingers when he tries to lead her underneath their shelter, instead of kicking out for his shins. “Come now, you dame,” he sighs. She comes with him easily enough, recognising that standing underneath a tree’s branch, catching passing cool breezes, will be something better than facing off a griffin.

It takes Geralt almost two hours to come back to them. Roach is the first to notice him returning, pawing a hoof into the ground and nickering softly. Jaskier looks up from his lute, fingers stilling over the strings.

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of the Witcher returning; he carries a slight limp and a smattering of blood across his face and arms. Clutched in one of his hands, a griffin’s head swings with every footfall.

Jaskier’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a while. “You’re covered in blood,” he notices as soon as Geralt gets closer. The front of his black shirt is drenched.

Geralt gestures to the griffin’s head. “Most of it isn’t mine.”

“Most of it?” Jaskier narrows his eyes. Huffing a sigh, he clambers to his feet. “Come on then; we’ll get your pay and get cleaned up.”

* * *

The year trudges by. The sun doesn’t let up. When Jaskier does move between towns, he watches farmers in their fields, tossing buckets of water over their crops, trying to keep them hydrated and green. The celebrations of harvests keep going, though. And where there are celebrations, there will be Jaskier with his lute in hand. He doesn’t see much of Geralt during the rest of the summer, but he does hear whispers about the Witcher’s adventures from patrons of taverns and inns.

He had a nursemaid when he could barely reach his mother’s waist. She told him a story once, when they were out of ear-reach from his parents who probably wouldn’t have appreciated elven tails being spoken of underneath their own roof. But Jaskier always listened intently, letting his imagination run wild. His nursemaid spoke of gods who loved each other, but couldn’t be together. They found a way, of course. They always did. It wouldn’t be much of a story if they didn’t. But Jaskier remembers his nanny’s face turning serious for a brief moment; _harsh summers make for harsh winters. Even when the world seems out of balance, one thing must always equal another._

So when the summer gets hotter, and the grass and trees turn yellow and threaten to catch fire, he worries that their winter will freeze the continent over completely. He doesn’t worry for himself, so much as he worries for those who live off of the land. How will people ration their crops if it withers away during the summer? How will those living outside of city walls cope in their cabins and shacks, where one strong gust could blow it away?

The transition is spent worrying. Niggling thoughts in the back of his mind flare up whenever he feels a cool breeze nip at his skin. The sun still sits in the sky. Clouds are still wisped along the blue sky. But everyone knows that winter will be upon them if they’re not careful.

Toussaint is quiet. Jaskier’s fingers pick at the strings of his lute. He’s sung his summer songs. Other bards in other towns have been left with their echoes. Oxenfurt would be the best option. A city of sturdy walls, well stocked with food and wine. The Academy would have his accommodation still held on to. All he needed to do was start his trek there; weather keeping good, that is.

But whether it’s his own time management or something else entirely, Jaskier looks out one of the tavern’s windows one day and sees a greying sky. He blinks. Not a single cloud had been seen for most of the summer. But now, he wanders over to the window, peering at the sky, it’s starting to look bleak.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath.

The trees hardly had a chance to turn red and yellow before their leaves litter the sides of roads and pile up against buildings. Shop windows, that would have been open, are now barred closed. Down every stretch of road, Jaskier is accosted by a shrill breeze of cold air. He swears sometimes it whispers to him; telling him that he needs to move. Where he needs to move to, he doesn’t know. And it never tells him. But just _move_.

His arms are full of bread and portions of dried beef when he spots Geralt again. The transition seems to have treated the Witcher a bit better; Jaskier notices a new cloak draped over his shoulders, with a woollen thin blanket pulled over Roach’s hindquarters. The mare’s winter coat is starting to come in, if her feathered ears and fetlocks are anything to go by.

Jaskier wanders over. “I thought you would have gone to your keep by now,” he says as soon as he’s close enough. Roach spotted him coming, the mare’s ears twitching forward at recognition.

Geralt cinches up the girth to her saddle. “I thought you would have gone to your academy by now,” he fires back, checking on some provision bags attached to the saddle.

Roach nudges Jaskier’s arms. A loaf of bread almost goes to the ground, but he manages to catch it. “Yeah, I,” he clears his throat. “The weather caught me out, unfortunately.”

It’s only then does Geralt turn to look at him. Yellow eyes drop down to the food-laden in Jaskier’s arms. “Where are you staying then, if not the academy?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Here, I guess. I don’t want to risk trying to get anywhere else.”

Geralt’s frown only deepens. Toussaint is a nice town, but it’s built for warmer weather. People don’t winter well in places like Toussaint. Especially people who can only live night-by-night in taverns and inns, which Jaskier is going to have to do—

“I’m going to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says stiffly. “Come with me.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, but he’s quick to shut it. Geralt holds his gaze. “I’m...what?”

“Would you rather spend your winter here?” Geralt’s voice hardens. “Out in the cold with ravens watching from the trees, waiting for the first of the starving or sick to drop?”

And he’s seen it all before; winters were he didn’t make it to Oxenfurt on time, winters spent weathering out howling winds in shabby road-side inns and taverns. His bones shiver at the memory of it.

Something must give away his answer. Geralt hums and turns back to Roach, doing up the last of her bridle. “It will be a long walk,” he says, “but if we go now, we’ll get there before the snow starts.”

Jaskier frowns. The winds have already started to nip at his skin. All the clouds need to do is turn grey with rain, and they’ll have feet of snow in no time at all. But Jaskier nods. He knows that the keep is a province away, and a trek up the mountain. They’ll need to move before the weather turns too cruel.

It’s something he never thought about when he left to explore the world; relying on the weather to be kind to him was something he had to quickly learn.

He’s heard stories of Kaer Morhen; whether or not any of them are true, he has no idea. But none of these stories have come from Geralt, so he can only assume that they’re full of shit.

He follows the Witcher on the path back to the keep. Geralt seems to know the way as if the wind just carried him along. Not once does he look up at wooden posts point in the directions of towns and other settlements. He keeps his eyes on the horizon and just keeps walking.

When they reach the foot of the mountain, the wind starts to change. Geralt lifts his head, squinting at the dark skies above them. Roach shakes; her winter coat keeping her warm, but it’s useless against any rain or snow that will fall if the clouds continue to grow heavier and heavier.

“It’s going to rain,” Geralt says after a time. He tugs at Roach’s reins. “There’s an inn nearby.”

And the innkeep lets them have the room for nothing. He’s an old man with a weathered face and pearl white hair. When Geralt steps into the tavern, the man nods towards the staircase and goes back to polishing a tankard.

There’s a hearth in the room, already lit and laden with wooden blocks. A large bed sits in the middle of the room, woollen blankets and throws and fur pelts sitting at its foot. When his eyes fall on a bathtub with hot water already in it, Jaskier’s bones groan. “You wouldn’t mind if I...?” he trails off, gesturing to the tub.

Geralt regards him for a moment before shaking his head. He stalks off to the other side of the room, resting both sheathed swords against the wall before pulling off his cloak and the heaviest of his armour. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, but turns for the bath.

There’s a slight chill to the room when he gets rid of his own clothes, folding and setting them nearby while he dips his hand into the water. And he just about swallows a moan at the warmth of it. There’s a faint scent of oats and lavender, and Jaskier can’t get into the bath quick enough.

Geralt pads around the room, tossing some of the blankets on to the bed and arranging his own side. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye.

This isn’t new; sharing a space. In all the summers he spends with the Witcher, he finds them sharing the same bed for the most part. Though most staying in taverns and inns will be in good spirits, and laden with coin, sometimes gold is scarce, and can only stretch so far.

But it doesn’t stop the tips of his ears from warming. This is new; sharing winter with Geralt. The thought of what the keep will be like circles his head – as does the wonderings of what the other Witchers will be like. Geralt rarely speaks about the others; but Jaskier managed to wrangle out a few names from the Witcher.

He lowers himself deeper into the tub, letting the water lap against his chin. The room is quiet, with nothing but the hissing and sparking of the hearth’s fire to break it. Even Geralt is silent, lying on the bed, head turned towards the other side of the room.

Jaskier hums.

His nursemaid’s voice, decades-old now, whispers into the shell of his ear. He can remember her words as if he were still a boy held on her lap, lulling to sleep listing to sleep with songs and stories.

_The lady loved him and the kingdom they shared  
But without her above, not one flower would grow  
So the King agreed that for half of each year  
She would stay with him there in his world down below.  
But the other half, she would walk in the sun  
And the sun, in turn, burned twice as bright  
Which is where the seasons come from  
And with them, the cycle  
of the seed and the sickle  
And the lives of the people  
And the birds and their flight—_

“Even your thoughts are loud, bard.” Geralt’s voice cracks through the silence. “You’re thinking about something. What is it?”

Jaskier pushes himself out of the water slightly, resting his arms on the edge of the tub. He can blame the growing blush on his cheeks on the water. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts. “Either come out with it bard, or quieten your mind.” When Jaskier glances over to the other side of the room, he blinks as he sees Geralt lying in the bed, blankets already pulled over him.

“Did you ever hear the tale of how the seasons came to be?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt hums.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. A nursemaid told me about it,” Jaskier says. “It’s a sweet tale. There’s not many of them, particularly where folktale is concerned. But I always liked that story. Two gods being in love with each other, not wanting to be apart, and the weather suffered for it.”

The room is silent for a moment. “Did your nursemaid tell you that one of the gods tricked the other? Got the poor girl to eat food of his world, damning her to stay there for certain parts of the year?”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Yes, that _is_ a version of it.” Jaskier huffs. “You’re so old that you were probably there witnessing the entire thing. What were they like, the gods? Did you know them well?”

It earns a light laugh out of the Witcher – a sound that always sends a thrum of heat through Jaskier’s veins. “Why are you thinking about stories like that?”

“The weather hasn’t been right in the last few years,” Jaskier says. “A few people in Cidaris were talking about it; saying maybe it had something to do with the gods.”

“Never took you for being superstitious.”

“I’m just noticing, that’s all.” The water is cooling and gooseflesh prickles his skin. Outside the window, he spots the sky turning black, and the moon making a valiant effort to fight through a cover of clouds. When he stands, he tries not to groan at the chill that runs over his body. Grabbing a towel, he dries off quickly. His clothes are clean, if not for the light sheen of dust from the road; something solved with a quick shake out.

By the time he pads over to the bed, slipping beneath the blankets, he fears Geralt might have fallen asleep. The Witcher is still, with even long breaths filling his chest. But the second Jaskier’s head meets the pillow, the Witcher turns on to his side to face him.

“I don’t know what’s happening with the seasons,” Geralt rumbles, “but Kaer Morhen is open to the friends of Witchers.”

Geralt doesn’t even open his eyes. Jaskier stares at him for a moment. “Are you admitting that I’m your friend?” A slow smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Because if you are, I’m going to need you to confirm that. In a full sentence. And, if possible, could I have it in writing?”

“I don’t want to come down from the keep one spring and see you dead on the side of the road,” Geralt mutters. When he does open his eyes, Jaskier has to stop himself from inhaling too quickly at how wide the Witcher’s pupils have become. “The keep will shelter and feed you for the winter.”

Jaskier swallows. “Why?”

“Because,” Geralt sighs, eyes slipping shut again, “you’re important to me.”

And a shiver wracks through him. Not one he could blame on the cold. The burning hearth and the small mountain of blankets and furs covering the bed shelter him from the cold. But this is different. Warmth settles in his core. A smile breaks out along his face. “You’re important to me too,” he rasps, hoping that, even though the Witcher’s eyes are closed and he’s sinking further into the mattress, he can at least nod off knowing that Jaskier said what he said.

Because gods be good, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to say it ever again; not when Geralt’s glower could return at any moment.

He gets confirmation of the Witcher hearing it in a soft hum.

**Author's Note:**

> I have such a firm belief that Jaskier is both Persephone AND Orpheus, you wouldn't believe. There's just something incredibly personal about a floppy-haired man singing his lalala-s with his guitar and smile, getting the order of the world back together.
> 
> This was all over the place lmao. But *shrug* I'm depressed and have a toothache and a potentially fractured ankle (don't ask) that I won't be able to have seen to for another 2/3 weeks because the lockdown got extended because people are Silly and going out meeting their friends at their houses for drinks and I kinda wanna kill them :)
> 
> But, we're fine. We are fine. Fine, we are.
> 
> Tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) || agoodgoddamnshot (writings)
> 
> Stay At Home. Stay Safe x


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